


somebody stepped inside your soul

by yanak324



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And all Gendry wants is for her to feel better, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arya doesn't go to the council, But she does go to Storm's End, Eventual Romance, F/M, Post-Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, lovers to friends to lovers again, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-08-13 12:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/pseuds/yanak324
Summary: The day Arya Stark rides into the castle is the coldest they have in several weeks. The new Lord of Storm’s End doesn’t believe in coincidences.





	1. wrap myself around your cold shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this after 8.05 and never posted it because well 8.06 kind of fucked up my plans. But of course, in the midst of writing the multi-chapter story that might actually kill me, I got a rare bout of inspiration to finish this up. 
> 
> It's not exactly AU because everything in the finale still happens except Arya wasn't at the council and she hasn't sailed West yet. It's evident that witnessing the burning of King's Landing did a number on her and I refuse to believe she just accepted it and moved on without addressing her inevitable trauma. The next chapter will be in Arya's POV. As always, I own nothing. Story title stolen from U2, chapter title from Of Monsters and Men. Enjoy!

xxx

She comes to him in the thick of winter. 

If one could call it that. 

Here in the Stormlands, winter is not the same as in the North. Here, winter doesn’t blanket all the eye can see in snow. It doesn’t choke you with needles in every breath you take. 

It doesn’t leave you cold to your very bones. 

No, here in the Stormlands, winter is transient. It passes some days but not others, barely touching the ground. As if it knows it’s not welcome.

The day Arya Stark rides into the castle is the coldest they have in several weeks. 

The new Lord of Storm’s End doesn’t believe in coincidences. 

xxx 

“You have a visitor.” 

Ser Davos greets him in his solar, Gendry’s first stop after returning from a long tour of nearby villages. 

He is exhausted but not in an unpleasant way. His favorite part of lordship duties is being out there in the more remote lands, getting to know the people who have made their homes there, who work with their hands to provide for their families. 

Those people are more familiar to him than any of the highborn families that have come calling on him since he inherited his father’s legacy. 

Gendry feels at ease out there, on horseback, hammer strapped to his back, riding from village to village. It gives him a sense of peace, knowing that if all this good fortune goes to shit, he can still find happiness out there somewhere, amongst the common folk. 

Amongst people like him. 

It’s perhaps this false sense of security that leaves him unprepared for when Ser Davos looks at him somewhat pointedly and says, “the visitor is Arya Stark and she’s in your chambers.”

Gendry nearly drops the cup of wine he’s poured himself, and the older man’s expression softens, almost as if in pity.

“She wouldn’t let the servants make up a bed for her.”

The revelation puts him at ease. It’s as if she were some apparition before, just a name on Davos’ lips, but with this statement, Arya has become very real. 

“Of course, she didn’t.”

Then he drains the entire cup and goes to find her.

xxx 

Gendry isn’t sure what he is expecting but this isn’t it. 

Arya is lying fully clothed on his bed, and even though she’s faced away from him, it’s clear that she is asleep. 

He doesn’t mean to do it, but his feet carry him to the bed and he lies down beside her, leaving plenty of space between them. 

He has not seen her since Winterfell, since she rejected his proposal and rode out to presumably King’s Landing without telling a soul. He’d searched for her in the days before and after the council meeting, but he hadn’t found her. He knows that she couldn’t have gone far, not while her broth – _cousin’s_ – fate hung in the balance. 

He has no real proof that she was there during the siege either but he knows it in his bones that she was, and it makes it all the more incredible that she is here, _alive_, and in his bed. 

He yearns so much to touch her, to confirm her presence once and for all, but he doesn’t want to wake her. He settles for watching her breathe, tracking the rise and fall of her shoulders until sleep claims him as well. 

Gendry wakes some hours later to a pair of tumultuous and oddly alert gray eyes. 

His fingers twitch to reach out and pull the errant strands of hair from her face, but he doesn’t dare move, doesn’t say a word, terrified that he’ll scare her off. 

“I didn’t mean to,” Arya gestures to the space between them, “but I had been riding for so long and you took _forever_ to come back.”

Gendry exhales the bit of tension he was holding, that delicate knife’s edge that she’s always held him on – not knowing which Arya he was going to get. 

The one who vowed to kill all the people who had ever threatened or harmed him or the one who had splintered the ice king into a million pieces and acted like it was nothing. 

It appears that this Arya is somewhere in between and he can work with that. 

“Some bad weather kept us delayed. It seems winter has paid us a visit today.”

Arya gets at his meaning immediately and Gendry swears he sees a faint blush on her cheeks as she turns on her back and snorts in a very unladylike way. 

They don’t say anything but it feels almost like it used to and he cannot help but smile. 

“Do you need to rise? Tend to your lordship duties?” 

Gendry cranes his neck past her, catalogues the thin line of light emerging from beyond the water. 

Gods, it’s really beautiful here. He looks back down at Arya and doesn’t even think about it. 

“They can make do without me for a little while longer.” 

“Good.” 

Her eyes flicker to his for just a moment. Then, she turns over and falls back asleep. 

xxx

She does that a lot in the first days of her visit, barely leaving his chambers and going unseen by most of the castle. 

When Gendry asks her about it, she just shrugs and says, “I’m tired.” 

But he isn’t _that_ stupid. 

He sees the haunted look in her eye, knows she’s not telling him everything. Hells, she’s not telling him anything at all, but he knows not to push. 

He lets her be, ensuring that the staff brings food and hot water to his chambers for her when she needs it. 

He spends his days as he did before – overseeing the grounds, taking his reading and writing lessons, and holding court for visiting Lords and Ladies. 

It’s the last part that he dreads the most, not always certain in what he has to say, but knowing enough of the highborn to be suspicious of their requests. 

He’s glad to have Davos by his side, a man who has inadvertently advised more leaders than any other person still living, but there is a part of Gendry that yearns for the counsel of another.

And that desire only grows with every passing evening that he finds the slumbering she-wolf in his bed. 

Tonight, she is awake when he enters his bedroom, and though her eyes lock on his as soon as he closes the door, she doesn’t say anything from her perch against the headboard. 

It strikes him just how tiny she looks in the oversized tunic and breeches that she’s wearing. A borrowed outfit since she arrived with nothing but the weapons on her belt and the clothes on her back. 

Her knees are pulled up to her chest and she rests her chin against them as she looks at no particular spot. His heart stutters in his chest at the sight, something about it eliciting a desire to protect, to shield her from whatever demons have been plaguing her.

And oh, he knows there are demons, as surely as he knows that there will be a winter storm tonight. He can see it in how she holds herself, the fact that her supper sits untouched and the way she doesn’t even try to put up a farce. 

Gendry tries not to rush as he removes his cloak and unlaces his boots before sitting on the edge of the bed and facing her. 

“You haven’t eaten.” 

“Wasn’t hungry,” Arya mumbles, her voice clearly hoarse from lack of use.

“You have to eat.” 

Gendry’s not sure why he’s pushing. It can’t end well but it’s been nearly five days of this, of her living like a ghost within the confines of his chamber, and although he is so glad she is here, he knows this is not her. 

This is not the Arya who had been so full of life, thirsting for justice and vengeance as a slip of a thing at two and ten. And it’s not even the Arya who had appeared one day in the Winterfell forge and recaptured his heart with a cold smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

No, this Arya is but a shell of herself, and a part of him is so utterly terrified that whatever horrors she had seen in King’s Landing – and Davos had told him only a little of what he’d seen – have permanently sapped the life from her. 

Pushing her is the only weapon left in his arsenal, the only way he knows to rile her up, and so he does it. 

“Do you hear me?” Gendry probes when she doesn’t say anything back. 

“Yes, I heard you. Did you hear me when I said I wasn’t hungry?” 

Her tone is biting, but when she looks at him again, her large gray eyes convey nothing but sadness, and it disarms him completely. 

“Alright,” he acquiesces and lays down on his side, keeping a respectable distance but still looking at her expectantly, “maybe tomorrow then?” 

Arya unfurls herself and lies down, facing him. 

“Tomorrow.” She promises and closes her eyes. 

The next morning is the first that Gendry wakes up with Arya tucked underneath his arm. 

He desperately wants to stay in bed with her, feel the warmth of her a little while longer, but he has lessons first thing after breakfast, and given his slow progress, he knows he cannot delay. 

It’s a surprise as much to him as anyone else that he sees Arya on the training grounds later that afternoon.

She’s not sparring with anyone yet but is keenly observing the group of young lads instead, and he can tell that she’s enjoying it. Gendry watches her for a few moments and when her eyes land on his, he swears he sees a hint of mirth in them. 

It’s the first time he really thinks that she’ll be alright after all. 

It’s perhaps why his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach when he is awakened that night not by the howls of the winter winds outside but by the whimpering coming from across the bed.

Arya lies curled on her side, fisting the sheets as she mutters to herself. Her words are incoherent but she’s clearly in distress. Her demons chase her in sleep, and all the horrors she has seen won’t even let her subconscious rest.

It’s only when she mutters his name, the pain so clear and evident in her voice, that Gendry snaps out of whatever reverie he is in and shakes her awake. 

Her eyes snap open instantly, as if she’d not been in deep slumber just moments ago. Gendry can’t help the rush of emotions as she closes the space between them and wraps her arms around him. 

He draws her in tighter, trying to quell the tremors that run through her body as her breathing settles down. His lips brush across her forehead completely on impulse and he feels her shiver in an entirely different way.

It’s not the time nor the place, but it does settle him a bit that she doesn’t pull away from him at such a bold gesture. 

They haven’t really touched in months, at least not until the night before, and though Gendry would be a liar if he didn’t admit that he’s missed the feel of her, has thought about not much else in the quiet moments that he had to himself, kissing Arya is for once the furthest thing from his mind. Not when she’s shivering like a leaf with unspeakable horrors running through her mind. 

“Arya.” 

Her body tenses but she says nothing.

“Will you talk to me?” he presses on anyway, because he has to, he owes her that much. 

The stretch of silence seems to go on forever and then…

“There was so much smoke…and ash.” 

He was right then. 

“And so many bodies, all burning. Women, children, the old…all of them extinguished.”

She grabs onto his tunic as she says it, and Gendry feels the familiar taste of bile rising up into his throat as he thinks about what she must have seen; what she lived through that horrible day and all the days before that.

The instinct to shield her from all of it nearly makes him angry, the injustice of it all, but he knows he has to quell that Baratheon fury. Arya has witnessed enough rage. 

“It’s alright, you’re here now, you’re safe.”

It seems like the wrong thing to say, because she shudders even more, “but that’s the point, I survived but I couldn’t save them, I couldn’t save any of them. What good am I if I can kill the dead, but can’t save the living?”

Gendry’s had enough. 

He sits up and pulls her up to face him, hands cradling her cheeks and trying to forget that the last time he held her like this, she’d been so sure of herself, so confident…such a far cry from the woman in his arms now. 

He wants to make her whole again, _needs_ to. 

“Arya, look at me.” 

She does and he feels a knot coil beneath his ribs at the sight of her unshed tears. 

“It’s not your fault the Queen went mad and took her rage out on the innocents.” 

He still can’t quite believe it sometimes, can’t truly comprehend that the kind if a bit standoffish woman he had met at Dragonstone was capable of burning an entire city to the ground, even a shit one like King’s Landing. 

But grief does strange things to people, and even the highborn are not immune to it. 

If anything it drives them mad with power and Gendry has seen it all. But the unfairness of it – the remnants of the act – now manifested in the survivor’s guilt that plagues the brave woman in front of him frustrates him more than anything. 

“The worst part is,” Arya continues as if she has not heard him, “is that every day since, I have wondered. What if Davos never came for you, what if you had never gone to Dragonstone or found your way to Winterfell. You would have been there that wretched day. You would have been, and I wouldn’t have been able to save you, and you would have burned with the rest.”

Her confession stuns him, as do the large tears that start to roll down her cheeks a moment later. It occurs to him suddenly that he’s never actually seen Arya cry, not when they were held captive, not when they were on the run, and not even when the dead were coming for them.

She’s never been this vulnerable, not with him and perhaps not with anyone. Gendry knows no amount of cajoling or reassurance from him will be able to ease her ache tonight. He lays her down against him, kisses her forehead and strokes her hair until her breath evens out. 

Eventually, her grip on his tunic loosens into a gentle hold. 

He barely sleeps a wink that night.

xxx


	2. i think i wrote my own pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me while I go hang my head in shame. My sudden desire to write smut for these two somehow turned this innocent story into a four-chapter situation with alternating POVs. Oh well, no reason to complain about inspiration. As always, I own nothing. The chapter title comes from Of Monsters and Men, whose new album is a must listen. Enjoy :)

xxx

She isn’t sure why she comes to him, but as soon as she says goodbye to Jon, that’s where she goes. 

She rides without any concept of time, of days or nights passing. Not questioning whether he’ll be there when she arrives. 

All she knows is that she needs to get away from King’s Landing, away from the ash and ruin, and her failures.

It’s not until she lies down in his bed and presses her nose into his pillow, that she knows she’s made the right decision. 

She smells metal and rain and leather instead of burning flesh. It lulls her into the deepest sleep she’s known since before she drove a knife through death’s heart and saved the Realm. 

xxx 

He is predictably pushy but also oddly tender and distant at the same time. 

It’s exactly what she needs to spoon a little bit of porridge every morning and on her fifth day there, to lace up her boots and go watch a group of young men spar in the training yard.

She lasts all of an hour before she starts picturing some of them with vacant blue eyes and others completely singed with fire. 

She clasps her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking and bites the inside of her cheek until her heart no longer feels like it will tear through her chest. 

When she scans the yard and finds a pair of entirely alive blue eyes watching her with interest, it distracts her long enough to quell the turmoil brewing in her head. 

She smiles for the first time in what feels like months and is shocked to discover that it takes very little effort. 

xxx

She usually wakes much earlier than Gendry and feigns sleep until he rises and leaves his chambers for the day. 

The morning after he rouses her from her nightmare, Arya opens her eyes to find him awake and staring at the ceiling; one arm folded behind his head while the other is wrapped comfortably around her. 

She knows she should move. This is dangerous and not at all what she came here for. 

But she thinks about how good his lips felt the night before, and how firmly he’d held her and realizes that she simply doesn’t _want_ to move. 

Since she hasn’t wanted much of anything in quite some time, she allows herself to burrow deeper into his embrace. 

The way Gendry relaxes and tightens his hold on her suggests that he doesn’t really mind. 

xxx

They don’t talk about her nightmares again, but they talk about other things.

Under the cover of the night, Arya tells him all about Braavos, and the House of Black and White, and watches his jaw clench as she describes exactly how she got those scars. 

In turn, Gendry tells her all about going North with Jon, and the rage he felt at seeing Beric, Thoros, _and_ the Hound alive and well, when he’d presumed her dead. 

Seeing the pain in his eyes, so vivid and fresh, reminds her that she’s not the only one who has lived through unspeakable things, and if Gendry can keep his demons at bay long enough to run a kingdom, then the least she can do is _try._

xxx

He looks surprised but happy to see her when she enters his solar a few days later. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, shifting away from the parchment he was writing on. 

“Oh nothing, just curious what you’re working on.” Arya gets close enough to peer over his shoulder and tries not to notice how he goes perfectly still at their proximity. 

Her lips pull up in amusement as she thinks about this dichotomy of a man. The way he holds her so fiercely at night but acts as shy as a maiden in daylight. Even when they’re alone. 

“My letters. Maester Llewyn has me transcribing chapters from these books as assignments. Then I sound them out for him during our lessons.” 

She recognizes the tomes on his desk as ones that Septa Mordane used, to teach all the Stark kids how to read. For once, thinking of the old woman doesn’t drive a knife of regret through Arya’s gut. 

“It’s not a bad approach, but I know a shortcut or two. Let me help.” 

She jumps up to sit on the desk and pulls the book in her lap, scanning the page to see where he left off. 

Gendry looks at her in awe but it passes quickly and his face splits into a grateful smile.

“Okay, but I have to warn you that I’m not very good.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, looking at him pointedly, “we’ve got time.” 

His expression goes soft, but he doesn’t say anything, simply reaches for the quill again, ready to learn. 

His forearm settles flush against her thigh as he flattens out the parchment, and although there’s plenty of space on his desk, Arya doesn’t dare move away. 

xxx 

She gets to know the castle too. It’s not as distinguished as Winterfell but what it lacks in sophistication, it makes up for in fortitude. 

The same could be said for its people, who all seem to adore their new Lord. 

She tells Gendry as much one night as she watches him get ready for bed. He pauses in the middle of unfastening his jerkin to fix her with a curious expression. 

“And how would you know that?” 

She knows the ‘milady’ is at the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t say it. It means something different in the wake of his rejected proposal. Still, Arya’s surprised by how much she yearns to hear it again. 

“I’ve heard things,” she tells him vaguely, but the meaning isn’t lost on him. Despite his commitment to his duty, when his face breaks into a brilliant smile, she knows it has less to do with what the Stormlanders think of him, and more with the implication that she’s no longer confining herself to these four walls. 

Arya isn’t sure how to feel about it. They’re on the brink of something daring, something that has the potential to derail all her carefully laid plans.

Any cautionary thought dissipates the second Gendry pulls his tunic off, leaving him naked from the waist up and illuminated by the single candle burning by the bedside. 

She’s seen him in far less many times before, but it feels like it’s the first time she’s truly noticed. Her cheeks flush instantly and her throat goes dry and she has trouble remembering exactly what they were just talking about. 

Gendry doesn’t seem to notice, a smile still dancing on his lips as he blows out the candle, and slides in besides her, submerging them in darkness.

“I’ve heard things too, you know.” 

“Oh yeah?” She manages to croak out, trying not to give away how she’s suddenly effected by him. The warmth that radiates from his half-naked form makes it that much harder. 

“Yeah, apparently the people have noticed that their Lord smiles more now that his dearest friend has paid him a visit.” 

She turns to him then, because how could she not. Even in the dimness of the room, she can still see the love in his eyes, the way they glimmer with a mix of nerves and adoration, adoration that he feels for her, and her alone. 

It’s all she can do not to dig her nails into the skin of his shoulder as she yanks him forward and kisses him. 

There’s only a brief moment of hesitation as his lips still beneath hers but then he’s slanting his mouth over hers and running his tongue along her bottom lip, and she becomes nearly lightheaded at the taste of him. 

Her hips part effortlessly for him, and he settles in between them, bracing himself on top of her as he kisses her with the fervor of a starving man. It feels so good, so right, her mind is so blank that Arya doesn’t question it, diving right in with him. 

They pull apart some time later, breathing heavily against each other, and she can’t help pawing at him, running her hands across his back, his shoulders. Afraid that if she stops, she’ll second guess herself and ruin everything.

Gendry doesn’t seem to have the same problem, pausing to run a finger down her cheek and admire her. 

“You’re so beautiful, Arya.” 

Except he’s the beautiful one. He’s the one who keeps saving her, who keeps giving her the strength to battle all the dark thoughts swirling in her head. 

And because words have never been her strong suit, she tries to show him in other ways. Sliding her hands away from his skin, she reaches between them and pulls her shirt off. A sliver of moonlight falls right across Gendry’s face, and she can see how his eyes hungrily drink her in, flickering down to her torso and back to her face in some sort of wonder. 

It makes her entire body sing, nerve endings primed even before he leans down and kisses the space between her breasts. Her fingers curl around his neck and she pulls him towards her again, feeling that delicious spark of heat as he pulls one nipple into his mouth, and then the other. 

She gets lost in the sensation, lost in the feel of his soft lips and curious tongue against her skin. Doesn’t even notice that he kisses his way down, until he stops at her scars, and her eyes peel open to search his out in the darkness. 

The way Gendry looks at her, almost reverently, before leaning down to trace the puckered flesh with his mouth, unfurls something inside her. She thinks of Sandor and how this is the closest she’s ever gotten to fulfilling the promise she made him.

This is the most _ alive _ she’s felt in months, maybe even years, save for the last time she had been in Gendry’s arms. With this realization, there’s no turning back, so she doesn’t. __

_ _Her fingers move from his neck to trace along his bottom lip, and he kisses each digit through his smile. _ _

_ _“Don’t stop.” _ _

_ _She doesn’t sound like herself, least not the cold, distant weapon she had grown accustomed to being. No, she sounds like a woman who’s on the verge of being loved and who doesn’t want to wait any longer. Gendry’s smile drops at her request, eyes growing darker as his fingers curl into the waistband of her pants, pulling them down. _ _

_ _Arya lifts her hips to help him along, and there’s a moment where they fumble together, trying to divest her of the material. Then, she is naked, and Gendry pushes her knees up and apart, leaving her vulnerable before him and quite aware of the wet heat between her thighs. _ _

_ _He sees it too, but before she can urge him forward, he kneels down on his own accord, settling between her legs, and presses a kiss to her hip bone. _ _

_ _“May I?” _ _

_ _Gendry looks up at her expectantly, and she can hear her heart beat in her throat, arousal leaving her unsettled and desperate. _ _

_ _She nods, fully aware of what she’s consenting to, even though she’s never had a man do that for her before. They never got around to it last time, so it’s quite fitting that it’s Gendry who gets to be the first to do it, to mark her like this. Arya wants to watch him do it too, but the second his lips make contact with her skin, her eyes squeeze shut. She throws her head back, letting out a moan so loud, she thinks the guards will run in at any moment. _ _

_ _They don’t, and it’s just the two of them, and Gendry’s tongue starts to slide wet and determined against her. _ _

_ _She can’t make out any one sensation, can’t comprehend much beyond the way she’s been reduced just to the places where Gendry’s touching her. One hand keeping her open for him as he licks circles into her cunt, while the other rests across her stomach. _ _

_ _She nearly crawls out of her skin when his thumb finds her nipple, and the delicate throb between her legs starts to pulsate in time with her frantic heartbeat. _ _

_ _It’s messy and at some points, grows to be too much, but Gendry holds her through it. When she thinks she absolutely can’t handle anymore, body wound so tight, she might snap at any minute, she grabs hold of the arm resting across her belly, nearly bruising it. _ _

_ _Gendry immediately eases off with his tongue and instead presses two fingers right inside her, and maybe it’s because she doesn’t expect it, but the sudden shift makes her see stars. _ _

_ _She’d come the last time they did this, but it hadn’t been like this. It’s sweeter than she would have imagined. A charge to every muscle in her body all at once, followed by a steady warmth that leaves her revived yet boneless. _ _

_ _It takes her a while to pry open her eyes and catch her breath, but when she does, her gut lurches again. Gendry’s sitting up on his knees, panting and staring directly at her with wild, unfocused eyes, his breeches straining against his noticeable erection. _ _

_ _But it’s the way his mouth gleams with wetness that has her rising on unsteady legs and moving towards him. _ _

_ _When he kisses her, she pulls his bottom lip into her mouth and sucks, making her intentions known. Together, they get his pants off him, and she revels in the shudder he lets out as she takes him into her hand._ _

_ _He’s thick and soft and better in ways she doesn’t remember. She’d tried to erase him from her memory, had thought it would be easier that way. Now she’s oddly glad for it, because it makes this feel like the first time between them. Like it should have happened, without the pretense of death looming over them. _ _

_ _She crawls back against the pillows, taking him with her and when he settles above her, she wastes no time in guiding him inside her. _ _

_ _Gendry exhales right into her skin, and they start to move together slowly, finding their rhythm again. _ _

_ _She vows to commit every single second to memory. _ _

_ _xxx_ _


	3. don't tell me this is wasted love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend to update this story so quickly but all of your wonderful feedback poked my muse alive. Huge thanks to  
[valsore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valsore/pseuds/valsore) for including this in her rec list on tumblr and to the wonderful [thelandofnothing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelandofnothing/pseuds/thelandofnothing) for her unwavering support. Titles continue to be pilfered from Of Monsters and Men and the characters are, as always, not mine. Enjoy :)

xxx

He doesn’t sleep much that night, going back and forth on whether what they’ve done is a mistake. 

Not the making love part – _Gods,_ that could never be a mistake, but the timing of it all. 

By sunrise, Gendry’s convinced himself that this was definitely not wise, and is cataloguing all the reasons they’re assuredly not going to do that again, when Arya stirs against him. 

He holds onto his resolve as she rolls onto her back and stretches. As she sits up to sip some water, and reveals the elegant curve of her spine. But then she looks over her bare shoulder, greeting him with a sleepy smile. That’s all it takes for him to forget why this won’t make anything better, won’t make _ Arya _ better.

He reaches for her and she goes willingly, settling on top of him so naturally, it feels like they’ve been doing this their entire lives. When she leans down, fusing their mouths together as their skin melds into one, Gendry can almost convince himself that they have. 

xxx

He’s not wrong. 

It doesn’t make anything better, but it also doesn’t make anything worse. 

Arya still wakes up some nights shivering from whatever images have plagued her in her sleep. The only difference now is that sometimes, instead of just holding her, Gendry also kisses her. Other times, he lets her kiss him; let’s her pull his clothes from his body and lose herself in the feel of his skin. Some nights, he lays back and lets her find purchase against his chest as she sinks heavy atop him and starts to move. 

Those nights are Gendry’s favorite. He can openly admire her, watch as she throws her head back in pleasure, exposing the milky white skin of her throat. 

He can trace his calloused hands along her taut belly, brush the undersides of her breasts, or travel down to where they’re joined, and feel the clench of her thighs around his hips as he rubs circles into her slippery flesh. 

Most nights, he’ll restrain himself long enough to watch Arya unravel. On the rare occasion that he gets there first, Gendry usually pries his eyes open to find her watching him with an expression that he can’t quite articulate. It leaves him feeling warm in a way that has nothing to do with the tightness of her cunt or the softness of her skin. 

Those nights, Arya doesn’t object when he rolls them over and peppers her with kisses, fingers tracing the inseam of her thigh up and up until her body grows as tight as a bow string and his cock inevitably grows heavy again as she strains silently for release. 

She never says anything afterwards, but she doesn’t have to. Words have never been their strong suit. The soft smiles she drops like kisses on his shoulder, his forehead, his lips are enough for him. 

But Gendry knows as surely as he knows the sky is blue that eventually, they’ll have to talk. He’s just not entirely sure what he’s going to say. 

xxx 

The decision is made for him several eves later, as he’s pouring over the latest ledgers with Ser Davos by his side.

He’s gotten better at sums in recent months. Much better he reckons, than he is at his letters. But having Davos nearby gives Gendry a sense of comfort and assurance that he doesn’t want to do without, if he can help it.

Typically, the old man just sits quietly with an old tome in his lap and cup of wine by his side, until Gendry finishes.

Tonight is an exception. 

“Davos, if I may.” Gendry beckons the man towards him.

Davos shuts his book and pulls his chair closer. 

“Aye, son?” 

Gendry slides the ledger to the side and taps the back of his quill against a spot on the page. 

“What’s this here? Extra timber and steel? Looks enough to build an entire ship but I thought the Iron Islands were providing the King with a fleet?” 

Davos looks to be contemplating his response, which normally wouldn’t give Gendry pause except that the former smuggler looks a little sheepish. Something heavy like stone drops into the pit of Gendry’s stomach, as if his body knows he won’t like what the Master of Ships has to say. 

“You’re right on both accounts, lad. King Bran did put Yara Greyjoy in charge of rebuilding the royal fleet, and yes these supplies listed here and here are for a ship. This one was specially commissioned directly at my request.” 

“At whose behest?” Gendry asks, but he doesn’t need confirmation. 

There’s only one person who would be brazen enough to go directly to the Master of Ships without first petitioning the Lord Paramount. 

Davos, at least, has the sense to appear chastened, but it’s only a trace. 

“Lady Arya came to me a fortnight ago.” 

Gendry doesn’t say anything, but he has a hard time concealing his displeasure at the news. Enough so that Davos raises the question that should be on his mind but isn’t. 

“Would you like me to halt plans?” 

Gendry immediately shakes his head. If he puts a stop to this, if he exercises his power, he would prove to be exactly what he had promised Arya and himself he would never be. 

At his core, he is as much a lord as she is a lady. He will not stand in her way if this is what she wants. 

There's something gnawing at him though. A dull ache that speaks to some deeper awareness that has not yet fully materialized in his conscious mind. 

It sends him in a different direction.

“When exactly did Ar- Lady Stark come to you?” 

“The 3rd of this month.” 

“Ah, alright. Thank you, Davos.” 

Gendry pulls the ledger back towards him, but his urgency to finish as quickly as possible so he can return to his chamber, and return to Arya, coils into a knot of apprehension. 

He might have been right all along. 

Falling into each other’s arms might actually make everything worse. 

Perhaps not for Arya but for him and his well-worn heart. 

At least that’s the conclusion Gendry reaches when he realizes that she commissioned the ship two days after the first time they made love in his featherbed. 

xxx

He finds her in the stables a few days later. The Stormlands are hit with a particularly savage bout of bad weather that confides them all to the castle walls. It felt wrong to disrupt the tranquility of his chambers with this discussion. 

Now there are clear skies and the fresh smell of past rains and as Gendry watches Arya diligently feed the smallest mare, he knows he can’t hold out any longer. 

He can picture her here so vividly, the effortless way she’s slotted herself into his daily life. He has to know if that’s in his future or if the tear in his heart will be permanent once she sets sail on a ship paid for by his gold. 

He steps further into the stable, catching Arya's attention. Whatever expression he holds signals that he isn’t here to watch or to help her. 

“Will you go somewhere with me?” 

Gendry doesn’t even realize he’s holding his hand out until Arya sets the feed down and easily accept it. He tries not to think about how natural her hand feels in his, or how easily she falls into step besides him. 

They walk in silence across the grounds and out the backgate. The Stormlanders are so used to the sight of them together that nobody pays them any mind as they make their way beyond the keep. 

Arya lets him lead and a certain calmness settles over him. There’s a sureness in their proximity that can’t be faked. For someone who has never known stability or certainty but craved it all the same, Gendry feels assured that nothing – no words or perhaps even distance – can erase the intimacy between them. 

At least as far as he’s concerned. 

They’re both slightly out of breath by the time they reach the top of the hill but the view is worth it. 

It’s one of the highest vantage points, with the sea spread out before them in all its turquoise glory. On this clear, cloudless day, it truly feels as though it’s in the palm of one’s hand.

Gendry had stumbled upon this secluded spot by accident in his first weeks here. He’d taken to walking the grounds to learn them, to understand the foundation that supports the majestic fortress that is Storm’s End. Once he’d found himself here, he kept coming back. 

Now it serves as a place for him to come and think…and in this case, share his deepest fears with the only person who has the potential to unravel him completely. 

“It’s beautiful here.” 

Arya stares straight ahead as she speaks. Even so, Gendry can see the sparkle of curiosity in her eye.

“Aye, it is.” 

But he’s looking at her and her cheeks color slightly as she ventures at glance in his direction. Then they’re both smiling like idiots and Gendry unsnaps his cloak so they don’t have to sit on the wet grass. 

They settle close together, thighs pressed against one another. For a sudden harsh moment, he wonders how he’ll go back to the time before. Before she stormed into his castle and slid into his bed and wrapped him in never-ending warmth. 

“You seem troubled.” 

Now it’s his turn not to look at her. 

“Aye, I am.” 

“Is it me? Have I done something to upset you?” 

He’s not prepared for her gentleness or even her concern, but instead of putting him off, it gives him the courage to peel his eyes away from the ground and face her.

“I’ve never once asked you why you came here. It didn’t matter before.” 

“But it matters now?” 

Gendry finds himself nodding, even as a look of pure discomfort passes across Arya’s face. He doesn’t like seeing her this way, but at least, it’s not the look of utter emptiness that seemed to follow her everywhere in the first few weeks of her arrival. 

“What changed?” 

“You asked Davos to build you a ship.” 

It’s not a question but somehow it comes out as one; as if some deep part of his subconscious is hoping for it to be untrue. The way Arya presses her lips into a thin line tells him that she did not anticipate this. For the first time since finding out, he feels stirrings of anger. 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” 

“No, but I thought I’d have more time to tell you myself.” 

Arya, at least, has the decency to look guilty, but it’s not enough and Gendry turns away from her. For once, he prefers the sight of something else to the gray eyed woman next to him. 

“Tell me what?” He asks, wishing that he was good as she is at the game of faces. Then maybe he wouldn’t sound so Gods damn bitter. 

There’s a long stretch of silence then, and he thinks it’s her way of drawing him out, of forcing him to finally pull his entire heart out and hand it to her on a platter. 

But he won’t do that.

He’s more bull than he’ll ever be a stag and there’s still some pride left in him.

Gendry holds so tightly to this belief, he almost doesn’t hear Arya speak. 

“That you saved my life.”

He does look at her then, and the action erases whatever fury was beginning to grow. 

They’d spent years on the road together. They’ve starved together, run from danger together, huddled for warmth together, and yet Gendry’s certain that he’s never seen Arya look quite as vulnerable and exposed as she does now.

Once she has his attention, she pivots her body to face him and he unconsciously does the same, fingers naturally reaching out to settle on her knee. 

“You asked me why I came here. I could not explain before, even to myself, but since being here, since being with you, I understand why.”

“Tell me.” 

He doesn’t want to interrupt but the urge to know is too great. The affectionate smile tugging at Arya's lips tells him he hasn’t fully derailed her thoughts. 

“Because you’re the only one with whom I can truly be myself.” 

_Then why must you leave?_ is at the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t ask. The way her eyes skate away from his and her lip trembles tells him there’s more. 

“But I’m not myself, Gendry, not really. I haven’t been myself in so long, not since I boarded that ship to Braavos, and I-” 

Arya looks back at him then, and the unshed tears swimming in her gray eyes grab him by the throat. He wants nothing more than to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, and erase all the horrors that won’t let her be, but that's not what she needs right now. 

“I can’t give you what you deserve until I’m myself again.” 

It’s as close as she’s ever come to telling him how she truly feels. For someone who has fantasized about hearing those words in some capacity since the moment he’d set foot in Winterfell, Gendry is surprised by how _not surprised_ he is.

What he does feel is an overwhelming sense of relief, of things shifting into place in a way that only the truth can set in motion. He reaches for her then, pulling apart his legs so she can settle between them. He has her now and he’s not going to waste a moment being away from her. 

Not when she’s all but confirmed that she loves him. 

“You think you’ll find it out there?” He asks into the crown of her head and he can feel her shrug against him. 

“I don’t know, but I have to try.” 

The determination in her voice, it’s so reminiscent of the Arya he once knew, Gendry finds that he cannot argue against anything that makes her sound like herself again. 

“Then you should.” 

He leans down to brush his lips across her forehead but Arya looks up at him, surprise coloring her expression. 

“Just like that?”

Then it’s his turn to smile softly at her as he runs a finger across her cheek. 

“I learned a long time ago that holding you back from doing something once you’ve made up your mind is an exercise in futility, and I’m not that much of a fool.” 

“You’re not a fool at all,” she counters quickly, protectively, and Gendry’s grin only widens at the line drawn between her brows. 

“Only with you,” he playfully taps her nose before pulling her into a kiss.

It’s brief and when they pull apart, Arya’s not smiling like he is. 

“I never paid much attention to my mother’s ramblings on marriage, but I do recall her saying more than once that spouses are partners first and foremost. They must support one another and lean on each other in times of need.”

She rises slowly on her knees as she says this, reaching for his face with both hands as if she yearns to imprint her words on his brain. 

“What you did for me in the short time I’ve been here; it’s what a good husband would do for his wife. But I cannot rely on you to mold me back together. I need to go find that for myself. So that perhaps one day, I can be well enough to be a wife you could lean on.” 

“A wife, aye?” 

It’s quite possibly the stupidest thing he can say right now, given the weight of the confession she’s just laid at his feet, but Arya doesn’t seem to mind, a smile tugging on her lips again.

“Yes, a wife. Are you hard of hearing?” 

“No, but-“

He doesn’t want to go there but his mind does – the smell of blood and ash in the still winter air, him bent on one knee, and searching for her answer in the darkness. Arya seems to get there just as quickly as he does. 

“When you’d asked me before, I said no because I planned on dying.”

“And now?”

“Now, I plan on living. If you’d wait for me just a little while longer.”

The way she looks at him – all hopeful and earnest – it damn near steals his breath away. Whatever he has left, Gendry uses to pull her into a kiss that conveys everything he dare not say. 

He’d blundered his way through one proposal and he has no intention of doing so again.

No, next time, he’ll do it better. 

Luckily, he has time to figure it out. 

xxx


	4. i still dream in indigo when you're around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself when I published this that I wouldn't rush concluding this story until my muse was good and ready. Well, turns out she was ready today and I sincerely hope you all enjoy what she and I came up with. 
> 
> This conclusion is dedicated to slayertown and flemoncake for being such champions of this little narrative and checking in with me periodically on tumblr to encourage me to finish it. 
> 
> Thank you, guys and all the lovely readers who take the time to leave comments, kudos, and bookmark my work. Title from "Sleepwalker" by Of Monsters and Men, and the characters belong to an old white dude who looks like Santa. Enjoy :)

xxx

She returns to the Stormlands in the heat of summer. The air is fresh, the vegetation green. The waves crash against cliffs that have spent too long being bathed by the sun. 

It feels like rebirth all around her. From the lushness of the trees to the birds circling incessantly overhead; to the sheer amount of people occupying the holdfast. 

And though she’ll always have the North coursing through her veins, as Storm’s End finally comes into view, Arya thinks she wouldn’t mind figuring out how to live in the South. 

xxx

Things are different from the last time she was here.

For one, she’d been correct in her assumption that the population has grown. 

The little bit of news about Westeros that trickled to her over the years spoke of the rebuilding and restructuring of the capital, and the great houses that provided the most aid. 

House Baratheon was mentioned more than once, largely for offering shelter to those left homeless after King’s Landing turned to ash. 

Arya is not surprised to see that some of those people have chosen to stay, settling in the place that had given them a second chance.

It does not hurt, she reckons, that they all seem quite fond of the liege lord himself. At least from what she’s gathered in the few hours since her arrival. She cannot help but feel validated with every whisper that passes by. 

She has always known that he would make an excellent lord. It appears she is not wrong. 

It also means that she cannot announce herself as she had done before, slipping through the cracks in the walls and slinking into his chambers. 

No, this time, she has to formally present herself in the Great Hall. There, the Lord of Storm’s End and his council shall inevitably promise to welcome her – a Princess twice over but more importantly the Bringer of Dawn – with a feast in her honor. 

Arya expects to be annoyed, never one for suffering through asinine customs. Least of all, not after so much time at sea, tasting true freedom.

But as she meets Gendry’s eyes from across the room – crystal blue so vivid and still so capable of making her shiver even at such a distance – she cannot help but think that this particular custom isn’t so bad. 

xxx

The conventions aren’t the only things that have changed. 

The Lord himself has changed as well. She notices that he holds himself a little taller, with a bit more confidence. And though she’s certain the fury hasn’t quelled in him completely, he no longer looks so much like a bull charging into battle. 

The years have infused him with a calm she’s never seen before. He looks more at ease than she can ever recall. He looks happy, and it looks good on him. 

His hair is different too, longer and wilder, and yet befitting somehow of a proper lord. 

Arya tells him as much when they’re finally alone; appreciating the view illuminated by the single candle lighting his chambers. 

“Oh yeah?” 

Gendry cocks an eyebrow in her direction as he considers her comment. 

His boyish charm is still ever present, though there’s nothing boyish about him anymore. Especially not when his gaze falls so heavy on her. 

“Is it enough to convince a lady to stay?” 

She knows what he’s really asking of her. The look he gives her leaves room for nothing but the assault of memories in this very chamber. 

Of promises whispered against goose fleshed skin and captured by the interlacing of fingers pressed into his featherbed. 

“I believe so.” 

Words ricochet against the walls and settle deep inside her – as sure as the summer storm raging outside. 

“Shall I escort you to your chambers then?” 

Gendry remains perfectly still as he appraises her with an eye that reminds her of yet another shared memory.

_ "Last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell. I took the long road, but…" _

Arya walks to him until she can see exactly how the candlelight plays off his features.

“That won’t be necessary.” 

His kiss is different as he bands an arm around her, lighter somehow, but his touch burns her all the same. 

xxx 

This is different between them as well. 

For one, she is different. 

Less turmoil in her head opens space for her to be more attentive, more present. 

Everything feels heightened in a way it never has before. 

Nothing like the nights when she would invoke images of Gendry warm and naked underneath her; fingers slipping between her legs in hopes of emulating the sensations he’d uncovered for her.

She’d never had much success, always left wanting and longing; pure exhaustion eventually lulling her into a dreamless sleep. In the beginning, it had taken all her mental fortitude not to turn her ship around and sail back into his arms. 

When Gendry slides into her for the first time in years, and all she can feel is him - his warmth, his breath, his _hardness _sheathed inside her like she’s meant for him - Arya decides she’s glad she waited. 

Later, when she’s sprawled atop him, cheek pressed against his chest with arms and legs intertwined, she thinks about how all this time away has been worth it. 

How she can finally close her eyes without seeing burning bodies and dead children behind her eyelids. 

She can finally give herself to the man whose heart beats strong and steady beneath her ear. A heart that has been patiently waiting for her to find her way back.

xxx 

Gendry gives her time to adjust. To find her footing on ground that doesn’t rock and sway beneath her. 

Some in the castle remember her, others don’t. Arya doesn’t mind so much, preferring to earn their trust once more. 

She’d been an apparition the last time she was here, existing mostly in the periphery. 

Half-dead, dulled by the demons and ghosts lurking in every corner of her mind. 

She understands that now. Understands just how broken she had been. Recognizes that without the man whose arms now slide so naturally around her, her battle for life, not mere survival, would have been all the more daunting. 

For that, she does not hesitate in giving him the answers he needs when he lays besides her one night, chin pressed against her shoulder. 

These balmy nights have eschewed need for covers and she’s lost in the way his tanned skin glistens in the candlelight when his question breaks through the tranquility. 

“What made you return?” 

She cards her fingers through his hair as she considers his inquiry. It doesn’t take her long.

“My hands stopped trembling every time I closed my eyes.” 

There’s a bead of silence and then, the feel of his smile against her. 

“I recall other parts of you trembling just moments ago.” 

His tone is so self-indulgent, she cannot help but laugh. Delighted that he feels comfortable enough to jest with her; that she no longer feels like delicate Dragonglass around him, ready to shatter at any moment. 

“I’ll take that any day, sir.” 

She drops a kiss to his forehead, and when he responds by brushing his nose along the curve of her breast, Arya thinks he’s moved on. 

But then Gendry looks up at her, and she can’t hide from his expectation. What’s more, she finds she doesn’t want to. 

She speaks until her throat is raw and her eyes have watered and her body feels weightless from all her confessions.

She tells him of the people she met, of the places she visited, and of the stories she’s learned. 

Of other kingdoms and dynasties. 

Of the rich and the poor. 

Of the liars and cheaters and murderers. 

Of the human condition that tied all of the disparate parts of her journey together. 

“It wasn’t unlike my time in Braavos, you know.” 

“How so?” 

His words come from below again, a gust of breath along her collarbone. 

“In both places, I had to work towards something. I had a goal. In the House of Black and White, it was revenge.”

Gendry rises, a strong forearm pressed along her side as he half-towers over her.

“And what was your goal this time, m’lady?” 

She smiles and beckons him towards her until his lips are just a hairsbreadth away from hers. 

“To return to you, of course.” 

His eyes grow wide but Arya doesn’t give him time to contemplate, leaning up and capturing his mouth. 

He fucks her long and hard after that, kissing every scar and blemish like they belong beneath his lips and his lips alone. 

When she’s finally stopped trembling, he empties inside her amidst whispered promises of love, and family, and devotion. 

Arya thinks this certainly trumps a feast as a proper welcome home. 

xxx

They go riding one day and the pure exhilaration of it – the steed between her legs, the wind weaving through her hair, and Gendry and his wicked blue gaze at her back – it all reminds her so much of life, of what it means to truly live that she can’t help but think of Sandor again.

Of the words he’d spoken to her in that forceful tone of his while the world crumbled around them. 

The image of him stays with her as they race each other to the nearby forest. She beats Gendry, but only by a small margin. When he reaches the clearing where she’s stopped, Arya decides to tell him something she never has before.

“You know it was the Hound who told me to leave the Keep that day. He told me to choose life over revenge.” 

Gendry immediately moves his horse closer, trying to catch his breath as his lips curve into a smile. 

“Are you saying that I have Sandor fucking Clegane to thank for my good fortune?” 

There’s that mirth again, that lighter side of him that’s so new and so utterly exhilarating. 

“No,” she yells back. They’re still a little bit apart and the wind is mighty today, and she needs him to hear her clearly. 

“I’m saying that even Sandor _fucking_ Clegane saw what I couldn’t.” 

“Which is what?” 

She takes a breath; a swallow of air because this has to be done right. There’s no turning back after this, not that she wants to. 

“How bloody in love with you I am.” 

Gendry’s smile drops instantly. Then he’s dismounting his horse and Arya has the first flash of that bull she’d been so familiar with as he stalks towards her.

“I was not particularly subtle myself.” 

He says as he comes to stand beside her horse. 

Her heart lurches unexpectedly. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’d been looking for you the night of the feast, and he gave me encouragement, let’s say.” 

Something about this is too familiar, him beneath her, same earnest expression on his face, same nervous energy.

But there are differences too. 

Where torches lit up his hopeful face before, the sun now serves as his backdrop, making his eyes shine like crystals as they look upon her with nothing but love. 

Where she’d been broken before, she’s now whole. As whole as she’ll ever be without him by her side. 

“Would you ask me again what you asked me that night?” 

“You know I would. Would you say yes?”

She doesn’t even realize Gendry has dropped to his knee until she’s dismounted her horse and is looking down on him.

“I would.” 

He tugs her down, making her lose her footing. She laughs as he catches her by the waist and seals his proposal with a kiss.

It tastes like all the adventure she’ll ever need. 

xxx


End file.
